


Burnt Heart

by geeky__chick



Series: Burning the Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geeky__chick/pseuds/geeky__chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post HLV) After the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock Holmes is still searching for the mysterious source of the "Did You Miss Me" video. Just as he is celebrating the birth of his goddaughter, tragedy strikes.</p><p>Sherlock must find a ruthless serial killer intent on destroying those he loves most, but his relationship with Molly Hooper takes a dive into territory he isn't ready for.</p><p>Will his preoccupation with the pathologist be his undoing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to take a stab at writing a longer Sherlolly fic. Let's see how this goes!

 

The chill hadn’t left the air, even as March attempted to bloom into April. Spring was still held at bay by the murky fingers of winter. Though the snow had long melted, the sky remained that cloudy haze that was synonymous with the colder parts of her home country. Still, there was a bounce in Molly Hooper’s steps as she slid out of the taxi, being sure not to drop the bags she had brought with her.

Though she had never been to the Watsons’ home, she found it charming from the outside. It appeared to be the picture of domesticity, all pretty potted flowers and scrupulously swept steps. Molly located the correct house and bounded up the steps, eager to see her friends.

The doorbell buzzed as Molly unwound her scarf. In the two months since Jim Moriarty’s face had broadcasted all over England, things were quiet. It was eerie, Molly thought, the ambitious calm before a monumental storm. She expected someone to have gone after her friends in that amount of time. After the first few weeks of silence, she’d started to _hope_ something would happen. Waiting on the cusp of something awful seemed worse than anything Moriarty or his cohorts could throw at London.

As the door opened, Molly shoved her melancholy thoughts aside. Today was for celebration, not maudlin madmen and wishful thinking.

“Molly! There you are!” John Watson said merrily. “We’ve been expecting you. Mary will be pleased.”

“Congratulations, Dad!” Molly said as John took the bag from her hands, ushering her quickly into the fire-warmed house. “I wanted to go by the hospital, but I’ve been on nights. I was dreadful company.”

John appeared tired himself, judging from the darkened circles under his eyes and the lines etched more deeply into his cheerful face. His eyes, though, held a tone of wonder, of amazement. It was the sheen of love so profound, she doubted anyone had ever scripted it into words correctly.

“Oh, you can’t possibly be as bad as some. I’ll run tell Mary you’re here. Sherlock’s in the lounge.”

Molly felt her throat go dry. She hadn’t expected Sherlock to be loitering about where there was a baby. Sure, he had read several books on the subject of pregnancy and child birth, along with how to care for a newborn. When he told Molly it was strictly out of curiosity, she hadn’t believed it for a moment.

If nothing else were true of Sherlock Holmes, his heart belonged to the Watson family.

John took his stairs two at a time. Molly could hear him calling for his lovely wife as he set the gifts she had brought on the sideboard. Aware that the sound of a very small infant grunting could be heard from the lounge, Molly stepped into the doorway quietly.

Nothing would have prepared her for the sight of Sherlock Holmes – Internationally Recognised Consulting Detective – holding his newborn goddaughter.

Molly found herself fidgeting as she stared. Sherlock had shucked off his suit jacket, lounging about in one of the deep plum-hued shirts he preferred. Little Elizabeth Watson was nestled into the crook of his elbow, swaddled up in a little pink blanket. Her godfather looked down at her reverently as she sucked on a pink dummy.

It was the look on Sherlock’s face that captivated her, though. Molly had guessed he would feel a connection to the child of his best friend, especially once John and Mary announced that he would be considered her godfather. She hadn’t expected this level of commitment, though. He looked completely at home holding the tiny creature in his arms, as though no one else in the world mattered.

Molly’s heart did a familiar clench in her chest.

Giving up on her crush didn’t mean she couldn’t still adore the man, did it?

There was pure love, utter loyalty, and a sort of calm about Sherlock as he held little ‘Lizzy’.

When her old friend looked up, a faint smile ghosted over his beautiful mouth.

“Molly. Hello.”

“Hiya.” Unashamed that she had been staring, though a flush coloured her cheeks – he had smiled at seeing her, after all – Molly stepped into the room. “I came by to see the princess. John’s upstairs.”

“Ah.” Sherlock almost immediately turned his gaze back to the baby in his arms. “She may doze off on you. Visitors are nothing to a good nap, you know.”

“Oh, that is right.” Molly teased. As she approached, Sherlock shifted so he could sit up. To her surprise, he handed little Miss Watson to her in a smooth, almost expert fashion. “You’ve done this before.”

Sherlock offered another small smile, stretching his arm out as though to work a kink from the muscles. Molly, for her part, focused on the baby in her arms.

Elizabeth Margaret Watson was a beauty, of that she was certain. Her big blue eyes were drifting closed under a cap of fuzzy blonde curls. Her pink skin was impossibly soft, those full cheeks begging for kisses. Molly leaned in to inhale the fragrance of a new baby, that sweet, almost indescribable smell that had clung to her nephews at their birth.

“Hello, little Lizzy.” Molly cooed as baby Watson drifted into a doze. “Oh, my. She’s just adorable.”

Sherlock broke his silence at that. “I think she looks like an old, wrinkly version of John. Most newborns favour the father. Some anthropological studies suggest the reason may be to convince the father of the parentage. Once the father has successfully bonded to the child, they develop their own, unique features.”

Unperturbed by Sherlock’s little speech, Molly rolled her eyes.

“You can admit she is cute, Sherlock. No one would think less of you.”

He said nothing, standing to move away as Molly swayed with the baby in her arms. She felt at home, having a baby in her arms. Her youngest nephew was now four, so it had been some time since she had the pleasure of a tiny, wriggly infant in her arms.

Aware that Sherlock was watching her, Molly swayed and bounced as Lizzy drifted off. All was right in the world, from the eyes of this child. She was warm and fed and loved, what more could the world offer?

For a moment, Molly thought back to her grim musings on the step. Evil was ever present in their world. The thought of such badness touching little Lizzy was heartbreaking.

A beat later, though, Molly imagined what Sherlock would do to protect the child. She felt the darkness slide away. God himself could never stand up to the wrath Holmes would bring down if anyone so much as made the child pout.

It was a cheerful thought.

“Oh, Molly!” Mary Watson swept into the room with her usual cheer. “I see you’ve managed to prise my daughter from Sherlock.”

“Hardly.” The other man chimed in. “My arms were tired.”

“Fibbing, Sherlock.” Mary said without missing a beat. She invited Molly to sit with a gesture, though the younger woman remained standing. “Where’ve you been, Molly? We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Night schedule.” Molly answered brightly. “Had to switch while a new evening shift was trained. It wasn’t too bad, but I missed a few things.”

Before she could continue, Sherlock’s mobile chirped. Molly glanced at him over her shoulder, finding he was still looking at her as he dug his mobile out. She frowned slightly, wondering at the lingering stare.

“Lestrade?” He asked quietly, stepping into the kitchen.

“That can’t be good.” Mary said with a sigh, reaching up to take her baby. Molly kissed Lizzy’s downy head softly before, grudgingly, handing over the sleeping creature. “Lestrade hasn’t called since I was in labour.”

“Which means, a case.” John sighed.

Molly stepped in, seeing the torn look on her friend’s face. Lizzy was only three weeks old. Of course he wouldn’t want to leave Mary alone. Molly shrugged a shoulder.

“If you need to go, I’ll stay. I’m off a few days, so I can get adjusted.”

“Are you sure?” John asked, glancing from his wife to Molly. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Oh, tosh.” Molly waved him away. “We’ll have tea and a proper chat.”

Mary grinned. “It’ll give me time to catch up. Go on with Sherlock.”

As though Mary speaking his name summoned him, Sherlock strode back into the lounge. His jacket was already on, scarf tied about his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Mary softly. “It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, John’s going with,” said the new mother happily. “Run along, get your coat, husband.”

Sensing the tension in Sherlock, Molly smiled. “I’m staying with Mary until you’re both back. It’s alright.”

His blue eyes met hers, measuring, assessing. In a moment, the calculated look was gone, softened by what Molly had only recently realised was affection. He nodded once, accepting her words.

Without speaking, he leaned forward to buzz Mary’s cheek with a familiar kiss. To Molly’s shock and her heart’s delight, he paused to run an affectionate fingertip over little Lizzy’s nose, as though saying goodbye.

John came back to bid his wife goodbye. Sherlock offered Molly a smile. In a moment, both men were gone.

 

~~**~~

The crime scene was crawling with people. Lights shone in every direction, highly visible even in the dim light from an overcast sky. Radios were squawking nearby, mixed with the dismal hum of quiet voices. To Sherlock, it was his home. He loved the thrill of the crime scene, the mystery of the puzzle. Of course, he was also inherently fond of pointing out that other people were idiots.

Today, however, something felt…different.

As they approached the tape, Sergeant Sally Donovan raised the flimsy barrier, allowing John and Sherlock through.

When she failed to deliver a biting, witty remark, Sherlock turned to look at her over his shoulder.

For once, Donovan was not staring at his back hatefully. She merely looked away, shifting uncomfortably. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her hands balled into tight fists. She shifted her weight between both feet, edgy, tense.

Something awful had happened.

Sherlock wasn’t going to like this.

He found Detective Inspector Lestrade no more welcoming. There were deep worry lines etched into the man’s face that had nothing to do with his cheating wife. They were on the outs again, judging from the creases in his trousers that spoke of too small hotel drawers. The stubble on his friend’s face wasn’t from a long day at the office. He hadn’t packed his razor.

It was the avoided eye contact that made worry clutch at Sherlock. Obviously, it wasn’t John lying dead in there. Nor was it Mrs Hudson or Mary or Molly. Mycroft was in the States, for some reason.

Who, then?

“Who is it?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Lestrade seemed to search for words. John stared at him incredulously.

“You aren’t leading me directly into the scene. Your voice on the phone was tense in a way that usually has something to do with personal business and you won’t look me in the eye. Someone I know has been murdered. Who is it?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Lestrade said softly. “We don’t know how long she’s been here.”

He needed nothing else.

Sherlock stepped past Lestrade, leaving John to call out his name. All of the females he gave a bloody damn about were alive and well. The only other woman he knew that might have had some tie with him…

When he locked eyes on her lovely face, on the mask of terror it would be forever frozen in, Sherlock felt his heart crack.

“Janine. Oh, God.”

It was John who found the will to say her name. Sherlock could only stare as he crouched beside her naked body. No matter how he had used her, part of him had genuinely liked Janine Porter. Her attitude to their ‘breakup’ was one of the better reactions he had planned for. They kept in contact, of course. She was still Mary’s friend, after all. Light teasing and gentle jibes had been part of their relationship before. ‘Post-War’ as she liked to call it, there was only more bite and a return to good humour. Sherlock hadn’t thought she could be in danger.

As John stepped outside, Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand. One errant dark lock of her coconut-scented hair had fallen into her eye. He wanted to push that lock away, to close her eyes, but that might contaminate the scene. His gaze moved over her naked body. Without clothing, there would be little evidence to her murder.

Why was she in an abandoned fish shop? Where had she been before? Why were her clothes removed?

“No sign of sexual assault.” Lestrade’s voice was still tense, but professional. “Body was moved here. We don’t have many leads.”

Sherlock’s eyes rested on the jagged cut in the centre of Janine’s chest. The edges were clean, free of blood. The wound was done post-mortem. She hadn’t had to suffer that while alive.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock asked, since he could see no wounds or bruising.

“Not sure.”

Sherlock nodded. He wanted to stay, to read the scene, to find her killer, but he wouldn’t be allowed to. Lestrade was already trying to find a way to gently get him away to be interviewed. Sherlock wouldn’t allow that.

His gaze went back to the wound on her chest.

It was a message, one that hadn’t slid past Lestrade or Donovan.

“One.” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah,” Lestrade muttered. “Just a one.”

Sherlock memorised the cut, the deep wound that was in the shape of a numeric one. It was done with a flourish, with care. Perhaps that was why it was done after she died, to be sure the artistry was perfected.

In that moment, Sherlock knew whom had killed his former girlfriend.

“It’s happened.” The detective said as he pushed himself to standing.

“What has?” Lestrade asked, reaching out to take his friend’s arm.

“He’s made his move.” Sherlock answered, shrugging to get away. “Moriarty’s man has finally struck.”

He strode out of the building, past John and Donovan until he could duck into a nearby alley. Without thinking, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket. He paused before typing the message that immediately came to mind. He had several people he wanted to protect, why would Molly Hooper’s face jump to mind first?

After a moment, he gave in to the impulse, typing a quick message.

_Stay with Mary until I collect you. – SH_

Less than a minute later, there was a reply.

_O.K. - M_

Confident she was safe, Sherlock considered going back for John. He stared down the alley for a moment before deciding he needed to take care of something on his own.

Sherlock turned, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and moved swiftly down the alley.


End file.
